Midnight's Innocence
by Rykea
Summary: It's been over a year since Weiß' last night together, but nothing seems to last. Reunited through a string of peculiar incidents and deadly games, Weiß may come to learn their hunting days are far from over. But this time, they're the ones being hunted.
1. Chapter One: The Night's Reflection

**Author's Notes**

This piece of fanfiction came into creation around the end of 2003. Within two weeks I managed to write the first four chapters and was quite pleased with the result. And then it was forgotten. Finally, after two and a half years, I decided to resurrect this project and release it to the public. The first four chapters have been somewhat revised to accommodate my new writing style and break away the previous immature tints the story possessed.

Even though neglected, I've always remembered the desired storyline and characters. Then again, considering all original characters were based after my good friends, it's hard to truly forget. Different character traits and aspects of this story are so true to reality for me, it's comforting in a way. Like leafing through a photo album, by revisiting this fictive world I am able to remember certain things. The readers may not see or comprehend my sentiments, but I still hope people can come to enjoy my weave of words.

Currently, my good friends aren't all that close to me anymore. Over the years we've slowly been drifting apart and found our own paths, more this past year than ever. Still, even though I let them fade away from the main aspects of my life, it does not mean I no longer miss them. That, more or less, is one of the main reasons I decided to resurrect this story. By continuing to write I am able to reflect upon my dear friends and all the wonderful times we've had. They may not get to read the final version of this tale, but that is the farthest thing from my mind. If one person can come to enjoy my writing, I'm content.

My original intent for this piece of fanfiction was for it to continue off the original _Weiß Kreuz_ series. Though, only a month after I started writing, _Glühen_ was released. Because of this, some readers may be confused, so I'll try my best to explain. My story occurs two years after the original _Weiß Kreuz_ series ended, and _Glühen_ (in my fanfictive reality) did not occur. For those who have only seen the original series, you don't need to pay heed to what I'm stressing. And for those who have seen _Glühen_, just try and pretend you never saw the series to avoid perplexity.

All in all, if you love it or hate it, thanks for reading.

Rykea Night, March 2005

---

**Chapter One: The Night's Reflection**

Ran Fujimiya walked silently, keeping his head low, letting the rain beat down on his face and body. The cold, penetrating feeling swept over him again and again with every descending raindrop. His clothing was drenched through and it chilled his body. It was like the feeling of loss, he thought, but didn't care. Nothing was left anymore.

Dark gray clouds covered the essence of the moon, though a dim, hazy light still lit the streets of Yokohama, a city that was a little distance away from Tokyo. This is where he had been living for the past year, since he left.

He shook his head removing the vile memories from his mind. He did do the right thing, he told himself. There was no other choice... was there?

_No, there wasn't,_ he reminded himself. He had to leave Weiß. If he didn't Aya could've been killed. His sweet little sister could've died. But the accident...

The doors to the hospital slid open as the drenched Ran treaded inside. Many of the florescent lights had been turned down low. The place was silent except for the slight snoring sound the teenage girl behind the reception desk made. No bodies filled the waiting chairs. Then again, not many people were ever here. Just the patients—most whom would never wake. How he hated this place.

His wet shoes made squeaking noises as he walked over to the elevator. The teenager behind the desk still didn't stir. Not amused, he punched the up button, letting a loud vibrating sound fill the calm room.

She immediately jumped and looked over in Ran's direction. Yawning, she stretched and gave a welcoming smile. "Well hello, Mr. Fujimiya."

He stared at her with cold eyes.

Silence.

"Here to see your sister?"

The elevator doors veered open and he ambled in without saying a word to the receptionist. She stared at him blankly before the doors closed—his frozen eyes meeting hers for a quick second, enough to make her gasp.

Combing his left hand through his dripping wet crimson hair, the elevator climbed upward. Within the secluded box, however, he found his past dancing across his vision over and over again.

_"I'm sorry, but considering her history, I'm afraid this time she will never awaken."_

_Ran stared at the doctor intensely, everything of pain and misery turned to bitter hate. "That's what you said the last time, three years ago. And she did wake up."_

_"And a miracle it was," the doctor said sighing. Removing his glasses from his nose, he rubbed his eyes. "But this time is different. Her brain is very fragile from the last accident. Now, considering the circumstances, I'm afraid the right amount of oxygen will never get to her brain." He paused. "She's going to be stuck in a coma forever."_

Ran flinched as the elevator stopped and the metallic doors opened. The halls of the fifth floor were shrouded in a thick veil of the purest darkness. Still, a sliver of moonlight stubbornly shone through the windows, piercing the black sheet. Walking from the elevator, Aya noticed the rain had stopped; only scattered droplets lightly fell from the roof and past the glass.

The beauty of the night never ceased to amaze him. It was so ironic how a noisy, upbeat city could turn into a tranquil paradise. No, Ran thought. Not a paradise, a hunter's haven. A place of inconsistent beauty hidden within the light, but released when the obscurity approached. A place where you could feel safe but fearful at the same time. A place where your wildest dreams could come true, but your nightmares would continue to stalk you.

Ran knew all about the wonders and dangers of the night. Being an assassin gave you that insight on the world. Funny how a place could be so safe during the day, but a real hell when the moon rose.

Sighing, he reached the end of the hall, stopping in front of a door reading 'Room 234: Aya Fujimiya'. His hand clutched the knob but did not turn. That's when he realized it—it was too silent. Where was the janitor? A nurse? A security guard?

Suddenly he heard a light crack coming from behind.

Turning around slowly, Ran hunched his body into a ready position. Prepared to be attacked or stricken at any moment, he slowed and steadied his breathing.

_**Snap.**_

The bloody pulp of a security guard's body dangled centimeters from Ran. His dead irises were wide, terror-stricken. Blood pooled in the whites of his eyes from the strangulation, and his face was tattooed with multitudes of abrasions and bruises. A rope hanging from the ceiling supports was looped around his neck, chafing away the thin flesh, drawing more useless blood.

Without hesitation, Ran flung open his sister's door and hit the light switch. The darkness remained as a distant breeze twirled around him. And that's when he first saw her.

The silhouette of a tall, slender girl with flowing dark hair stood in the window, holding his comatose sister in her arms. Before he could move, her eyes shot at him. The pale moonlight reflected on her face, letting him see her ghostly-pale skin, her dark lips, and the most exquisite silver eyes he had ever known. His breath left his lungs as he stared at her almost in a trace.

But her eyes remained cold. As did his.

Pulling himself from his intensity, he took a step towards them. Though, with the subtlest of movements, she quickly leaped from the window without speaking a word. Panicked, Ran raced to the casement and gazed down. His eyes widened with disbelief.

Nothing. They were gone.

A sickly pain struck his heart as he fell to his knees and went limp, only to scream the name of the one he loved the most into the dead silence of the night.


	2. Chapter Two: Flying Forward

**Chapter Two: Flying Forward**

"Ladies and gents," roared the loud speaker across the soccer stadium of twenty thousand people. "What a game we have here tonight! Only fifteen minutes on the field and the LA Galaxy are losing two to nothing! What's wrong, Hidaka? Has our hotshot goalie finally lost his edge?"

The crowd cheered, some booed, some just sat in their seats and did nothing, but the energy in the stadium was absolutely stimulating. Ken tried to focus on the game, he tried to focus on the crowd's energy, but he couldn't. Something was wrong, but it was something he couldn't place. The sensation of danger lingered in the air around him. It was pulling him into a sickly abyss.

"Hidaka! Watch out!"

Snapping himself from the depths of his mind, he noticed the soccer ball flying towards an open section of the net. Diving, he managed to grasp the ball in his hands and pull it into his chest before doing a forwards roll in front of the net.

The crowd screamed and hollered, cheering his name over and over again.

"Okay," admitted the announcer. "He's still got it."

Grinning, Ken prepared to run to the edge of the box and dropkick the ball. He knew if he picked up the right amount of speed before reaching the box he could probably kick it far across center to Gary Mores, the newest addition to the Sabers. Gary wasn't being guarded, more or less to his under-appreciated talent. If Ken could manipulate the spin to confuse the other players, Gary could probably make the goal, bring the team closer to a tie, and earn some respect from their hothead-of-a-coach.

Ken readied himself to sprint, taking a deep breath and running his free hand through his creamy chocolate-brown hair. But that's when she caught his eye.

She stood by the resting cheerleaders, off to the far side of the field, on his end. But she wasn't with them. She was far too beautiful and domestic for that. Her figure was tall and slight, complimented by her short black-leather skirt and her sleeveless lavender top. She stood with perfect elegance and class, an air of composure and etiquette about her, taking her beyond her age of twenty or so. A pure woman who looked to be an innocent girl.

She stared intently at the ground, consumed by something within her mind. Though, almost as if feeling Ken's gaze, she immediately looked over in his direction, her sparkling brown eyes lingering on his as strands of uneven blonde hair blew across her piercing stare. There was a fright to that stare, a desperateness, a warning.

A spray of heat slashed his face, and a massive explosion grasped his unaware body and flung him across the field. Pain oozed into the empty hole panic wished to envelope, and all he could do was bite his tongue to keep from screaming. His vision was blurred, hazy, as the frantic shrieks of thousands of people filled his head like whispers from the past. Strange gray clouds swam in front of his eyes as he quickly pulled himself to his feet.

Flames shot up from the ground as the grass on the field burned, smoke rising to the sky all along the sidelines and benches. The metal and green had been transformed into a deranged artist's work; fire dancing among the twisted remains of poles and stands, benches and bodies. Thousands screamed, trying to evacuate. Pure panic raged through the stadium like a mighty hurricane, gashing the air with its power. His teammates were running for an exit as Gray grabbed Ken's arm, pulling him from his trance.

"C'mon man!" he yelled tugging on Ken. "We've got to get out of here!"

But Ken stayed put, consumed by the sight.

"Jesus," swore Gary. "Come on!"

He received no response.

Waves of intense heat caused a bead of sweat to trickle down Ken's cheek. His chocolate locks blew in the scorching winds as Gary shook his head and ran off towards the exit, leaving Ken to stand and watch the fire blaze.

What was he doing? Ken felt as if his body and mind were no longer working on the same level. Every instinct he had said to flee, but his body wouldn't move. His eyes would not wander from the mounting inferno.

The stadium was almost empty now; only a few hundred remained still trying to get out the doors. They pushed and shoved, trampling over one another.But their voices faded away as silence seemed to wash over Ken. Only the sound of the raging blaze and crackling fire quaked the quiet. Just like that night one year ago—Weiß's last night together.

_Through the firestorm Ken saw her: Aya, lying on the ground, motionless. Flames swirled around her, deranging her appearance in the heat._ Is she alive, _he wondered. Then again he didn't know if even he was alive. Still, he staggered towards her._

_The building was set ablaze. The heat was excruciating, causing his sight to blur. His right shoulder pained from the bullet lodge within, and blood trickled down his face from a deep head wound. But all he could think was that he had caused this. He had caused it all. And now he and Aya would die because of his foolish mistakes. Regardless, he had to save her..._

"Help me, dear God!"

Ken snapped back into reality, escaping his past memories. The smoke was starting to choke him. The fire was spreading.

And there she was, sprawled out on the ground. The beautiful blonde, her legs trapped under metallic rubble, fire burning behind her, her clothing ripped, her hair blowing in crimson winds. A look of pure terror was plastered on her face—the look before death. She reached out her hand towards Ken. She mouthed words, but in a language he did not know. Clouds of debris fell from above, crashing down upon her body, covering her completely, pushing her into the ground.

Pure instinct gave in, and without giving it a second thought he ran into the blaze. Her legs were trapped under massive amounts of debris; her shirt ripped and covered with rich trails of blood. Her hands were crushed; her elegant fingers snapped backwards, the bone broken and splintered, only the skin keeping them attached in the most disturbing of angles.

He leaned rigorously against the rubble on her legs and pushed until it fell to the side, crumbling into dust. Collapsing to his knees next to her, he pulled her body into his arms, resting his fingers against her neck, searching for a pulse.

She twitched and subsequently opened her eyes, staring deeply into his. She raised her hand and stroked his cheek. "I'm sorry, Ken," she whispered not in English, but in Japanese—a language he hadn't heard in two years.

He felt his breath quicken. The blaze started to close in on them.

She struggled for a breath. "I-I came here to warn you…"

"Warn me of what?" he demanded still holding her in his arms.

"They have to destroy all those who may be a threat. Hundreds of the world's finest have already fallen into the depths of torment. And you will be next. You _are_ next." Her chest started to heave. She didn't have much time left. He could feel her becoming more and more distant with each passing second.

"Who wants me dead? Whom have they killed?"

She winced. "I was sent here to warn you, but I did not fulfill my mission. A threat is building; they wish to empower all. But you must fight them; you must go back to Tokyo and rebuild the past. That is the only way to succeed. The only way to _live_."

He shook his head. "I don't understand. Why do I have to return to Tokyo?"

She gave a small, weak smile. "The Siberian is a wild cat, and his sense of trust is incredible. Listen to him."

His eyes widened. "Are you—"

"Do you trust me now?" she asked serenely.

He did not respond.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled again and started to trace his lips with her finger. "I would've made it worth your while."

She leaned up towards him and closed her eyes, her lips brushing his for a moment before she fell back into his arms. Dead. He cringed, glancing down at the limp beauty in his arms. Everything died. Everything he touched died. He was cursed. Cursed by innocent blood. A nameless blood he would never know.


	3. Chapter Three: Dry Waters

**Chapter Three: Dry Waters**

The vindictive sun scorched the scarlet sands like hell's fire, and the distrainable heat was distraughtly visible, wavering across your vision like a transparent sheet, even in the darkness of a shady desert prison. 

Youji Kudou leaned his beaten body against the rough, jagged wall of his cell. They were dark gray stone, the same as the ceiling and floor. A rusting-metal door was held tight to his left, binding him, and in pure mockery of freedom, his only source of light was a small hole in the wall with two bars embedded across. 

He sighed and let his head slump back. His shoulder-length blond hair was greasy, his face covered with stubble. He knew he must have reeked. He hadn't seen any washing water for the past two weeks. The only liquid based thing he'd actually laid his eyes upon was the watery brown mush they served him once every two days. Even thinking about it made him cringe. And like hell he was going to wash in that. 

Time and time again he wondered how had he gotten into this mess. A month ago he was in a fancy hotel, drinking wine, a girl on each arm, while investigation a ring of terrorists for the American government. Though they had set him up. Hired him to find the correct information, and once they got it they destroyed his cover, sold him to the enemy. He was surprised he was still alive after what they had did to him. Drugged him in his hotel room, dragged his numb body to a truck, shoved him into the trunk, then drove for countless hours into the vast desert. Why didn't he just die in the trunk? It was excruciating. The air was scarce... Hell, his skin had even been melting. 

And now he was here. In some desert prison to rot away the rest of his days. He wished one of the guards would just give him a freaking knife or shard of glass so he could slit his wrists. He didn't want to go on this way. Maybe if he pleaded enough they'd beat him to death. But the most they had done was chain him to a wall and whip him until he fell into unconsciousness. But why never death? 

"You're an idiot you know," Asuka had once told him years before. "You always look for the quickest way in or out. You never use your brain, you idiot." Then she'd smile. 

God, did he miss that smile. 

His memories were shattered as the sound of a gunshot exploded in his ears, quaking the blistering hum of the cell. Then another. And another. 

"What the hell," mumbled Youji, dragging himself from the brittle ground. He felt unstable, as if his center of gravity was obliterated. He was weak, he realized painfully, so weak he could hardly stand straight. 

His cell door flew open, crashing into the wall, causing bits of rock and rubble to crumble and fall to the ground. Youji shielded his eyes from the light, waiting for them to adjust. Moments later he looked up in the doorway. His irises widened. 

"Asuka?" he choked. No. It couldn't be. She was killed two years ago. _He_ killed her two years ago. She was dead. He was sure of it. He could still see the stains of her blood on his hands, mocking him, taunting him, tormenting him. But how was she standing in front of him now? 

"Idiot," she hissed through clenched teeth, rushing into the cell and grabbing his arm, pulling him out of the hole in a run. Even though weak, he tried to keep up with her as she dragged him past countless bloody bodies of dead guards. Their faces were blown to bits, deranged; brittle shards of bone coated in brains and smothered in oozing blood. Only one gun could do that so simply. Her rifle was held tightly in her right hand, resting by her side. A shotgun. 

"Faster," she demanded in Japanese, pulling him from the thick stench of blood. With her words, he sensed something about her accent. Was she American? The accent gave her away. She wasn't Asuka. She couldn't be. 

Before he knew what was happening, she had fired the shotgun another two times at approaching guards with perfect stance. The first one's head exploded in a bloody mass, brains splattering the walls like a child's finger-painting, and she put a hole on the second's chest the size of a bowling ball. They collapsed to the ground, dead, as the girl and Youji hurried by, traipsing through their crimson remains. 

The sun's brilliant rays shot Youji in the face as they stepped into the outside world. Stunned and useless, he closed his eyes and let the girl lead him, whoever she was. He was quickly thrown into the passenger seat of a jeep, harshly, like a piece of luggage. The girl jumped over him into the driver's seat and cranked up the engine before tearing off into the desert. The sound of gunshot followed them, constant, vicious. Machinegun fire. 

The girl emptied her rifle and flicked the empty shells into the back before reloading. In two swift movements she turned and fired aimlessly behind her, striking down several guards. Signing, she turned and focused on her driving. "And now we're home free," she said while passing Youji a pair of shades quite similar to the ones she wore. 

Her skin was pale, no traces of a tan which he found strange, and her neck was long, a spiked collar pulled tightly around. Her black hair was streaked with highlights of red and fell nicely to her shoulders, a straight and even cut. But her eyes were hidden under black sunglasses. He felt half-tempted to reach over and pull them off. 

"So, you with the American army?" He asked, regarding her army pants and black tank top. The dog tags hanging around her neck also gave him this presumption. 

She laughed, not pleasantly or light, more sarcastically and dark. "Like hell." 

_Obnoxious_, he thought with a grin. 

"You're American," he tried again. 

"So?" she answered coolly. 

"So why did you just bust my ass? I thought the Americans sent me flying into the gravel pits." He folded his arms behind his head and leaned back against the seat. Jesus, did he want to light up. 

Instead of laughing it off in her insufferable way, she paused. "I don't work for Americans." 

Youji looked over at her. She seemed different all of a sudden, as if an untouchable wind removed her previous veil. She reeked of maturity and an oldness no one her age should ever possess. It was a familiar look, and devastatingly miserable. It's never easy to see your reflection in someone else's eyes. 

"Why did you assume I was American? I'm half Japanese, and I could be Canadian. We tend to speak the same in several regions. Same nothingness in our voices." 

He shrugged. "I don't know. It was just a thought. Your Japanese is a little broken, that's all. Americans tend to do that. Canadians speak more fluent usually." What was he doing? Discussing accents with her? Had he lost his mind in that cell? He was beginning to wonder. 

"I can see that." And then she laughed again. That goddamn laugh. "Instead of discussing the many accents of the world, wouldn't you rather want to know why I got you out?" 

"Enlighten me," Youji mumbled, closing his eyes, letting the sun beat down on his body while the light winds cooled him somewhat. 

"Simple really. I was hired by some anonymous contact to save some guy named Youji Kudou who had been backstabbed by the CIA and trapped in a desert prison west of Iraq. I need the money." 

"Oh," he answered. So she was a mercenary who knew nothing more. Just get the guy, get out, collect the cash. Simple task if you knew what you were doing, and she certainly did. 

- + -

Stretching, Youji walked from the bathroom into the bedroom of the hotel room wearing nothing more than a towel. 

"So can I get you…" His voice trailed off as he realized he was the only soul tainting the room. The girl had disappeared; her clothes, weapons—gone. Walking over to the bed he found a pair of beige khakis and a black T-shirt with an envelope lying on top. He ripped it open. Inside was a plane ticket, a direct to Tokyo, plus five hundred dollars American and a note. He threw the ticket and money on the bed but kept the note in his hands. 

_Youji, _

This is from my contact. He wants you to take to 11:30 direct to Tokyo. I've included five hundred spending money just incase something goes wrong. Life is full of surprises. 

I'll warn you now not to ever look for me. I've already left Iraq. And purely, our business is over. 

Have a nice life. 

- Akira

Akira. 

He sighed, a smile pulling at the edges of his mouth. Did she actually seduce him last night? That was a change. And why did he let her? Though the sickly sweet answer was that she resembled Asuka. No, she didn't resemble her; she was the exact replica, simply with different hair. But that was impossible though, wasn't it? It wasn't like Asuka had any sisters. And she wasn't Japanese-American. 

He collapsed on the bed in frustration. And why on Earth did someone want him back in Tokyo? He swore he'd never return, but now he wondered if he had a choice. 


	4. Chapter Four: The Note

**Chapter Four: The Note**

Ran slammed his hands down hard on the desk. The sound of bone cracking made the receptionist jump from her sleep to look up and see an edgy Mr. Fujimiya hovering over her. 

"Who the hell is she?" 

The young girl, probably only eighteen or so, gazed up at him almost shaking with fear. Her emerald green eyes flickered with flames of panic. 

"I-I'm sorry, sir. I don't k-know what you're—w-what you're t-talking about..." 

Ran just narrowed his eyes and jumped over the desk, standing behind her chair. She immediately pushed it back on him and tried to escape, but he was too quick for that. He instantly caught her by the throat and thrust her up against the wall. She fell frozen, but gulped as his hand tightened around her neck. 

"Tell me who she is, the girl with the silver eyes, or I crush your windpipe." 

The young girl stared at him wide-eyed for a moment before she spoke. "She came in here an hour before you arrived. She said she was a friend of Miss Aya and wondered if she could go see her." 

"You let a stranger into her room?" Ran's grip tightened. 

The girl opened her mouth but no sound followed. 

"Well?" he prompted. 

"Let me go," she hissed, almost in tears. 

Ran stared at her coolly for a moment before he let his grip loosen and backed away. 

"How was I supposed to know she wasn't a friend of... wait, what happened to Miss Aya? Is she okay?" 

His violet eyes flickered with an unreadable emotion before he spoke. "She's gone." 

She drew a sharp breath. "Taken? But how?" 

He turned his gaze from her and stared out through the glass into the night. "A window perhaps. But you sleep so soundly, I'm sure she could've walked right pass you." 

Unpleased by his sarcasm, her hand shot out and left a red imprint on his cheek. He glared at her but did not raise his hand. "I have no time for your childish games," he said calm and even. 

She let her shoulders and head slump as she collapsed back into her chair. Leafing through a thick mess of folders and files on her desk, she handed him a single piece of folded paper. "She gave it to me before she went upstairs. She said when you showed up to give it to you." The girl paused. "I thought nothing of it." The last words left her mouth with her head hung low. He knew she was feeling the guilt of the world pressing down on hers shoulders, but it was her problem to deal with. 

_The rose. It represents love, as I am sure you know. And to regain your rose I suggest you return to the past. There all shall begin to unravel. But be careful. Though beautiful, the rose will draw blood if you get too close. Don't make this mistake, Abyssinian._

Clenching his hand into a fist, the paper crumpled. Mumbling something over his breath, he slammed his fist into the wall. The receptionist didn't look up as he left the hospital. A few speckles of rain came down from above, batting against the door before it shut behind Mr. Fujimiya. 

After several moments of pure silence, the receptionist lifted her head and casually got up from her chair, stretching. Pulling off her wig of blond hair, she yawned. 

A soft beeping noise startled her, but she simply plunked back down into her seat and put on a headset. "Hello, Lynx," she greeted pleasantly. 

"Calico, mission status." 

She yawned again. "Mission complete. He's probably off to the train station now." 

"Probably?" the cool voice echoed back. 

"Oh, stop worrying. He got the note. My guess is he'll be in Tokyo before the week is out." 

The voice sighed. "Right. Lynx out." 

And the line went dead. 


	5. Chapter Five: Transferred

**Chapter Five: Transferred**

_One week later..._

Omi Tsukiyono felt panic course through his veins as he raced down the empty hallway, a piece of toast still clenched in his teeth. Each door slid tightly shut, one after the other, building his apprehension. He almost cried as his doorway came into view, slowly sealing itself. He tripped, catching himself upon the doorframe and sliding edge. 

The teacher peered down through her glasses at him with disapproval and mutely walked away. Omi felt himself sigh, but all too early. A great force crashed into his back, thrusting him through the door and onto the ground. He bit his lip, loosing the toast as his palms smashed into the cool tile, sending waves of pain up his arms and across his shoulders. The weight on his back shifted and screamed. 

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" 

Looking up, a young Caucasian girl peered down at him with bright emerald eyes. Short, uneven chocolate brown tresses framed a porcelain face slightly tainted by a brush of freckles across her nose. She looked so innocent and fragile as she clasped her hands over her mouth. 

"I didn't mean to. I'm so sorry." 

Standing, he lowered his head, hoping to hide the light blush staining his cheeks. "It's fine." 

She took his hand in hers, drawing his eyes to her genuine face. "Are you sure? I didn't mean to run into you, I just…" 

He smiled at this, her concern for a stranger, her awkward ways. "It's alright. I had already lost my balance." 

The teacher cleared her throat as a dismissal. "Take your seat, Tsukiyono-kun." Giving the girl another quick glance, he walked to an empty desk in the back of the classroom. The teacher stood beside the girl, giving her a questioning look. "And you are?" 

Turning to the class, she straightened out her black pleated skirt and white blouse. A look of bubbly composure coated her features and brightened her vibrant eyes. "I just transferred here from Moscow, Russia due to my idiotic cousin and her line of work. The name's Katrya Memoria. It's a pleasure to meet you all." 

With that she bowed, and Omi felt his cheeks begin to burn. 

Unorthodox, but amazingly catty. 

- + -

Hundreds of people buzzed around him as he freely paced down the sidewalks of downtown Tokyo, his bag held in one hand as he loosened his uniform's collar with the other. It was warm, but pleasantly so. Summer was almost here, casting off spring's cool humidity. It was refreshing in a way. Many things were nowadays. 

When Weiß disbanded, it was difficult. As odd as it was, they were the closest things to family he had. Everyone was already dead, and then the only three people left faded from his life like color in the sun. Kritiker attempted to form a new Weiß, and inquired of Omi to take his father's position as Persia. Despite everything, he was Mamoru Takatori, heir to the Takatori estate and bloodline. It was something he couldn't deny, but he easily found he could run—at least for a while. 

Kritiker was obliterated almost a year ago now. Two of their assassin groups were compromised, and the agency was pulled into destruction. He heard word in passing from Birman, Kyoko Takaoka, as she sought refuge in his home during the attack. She figured the compromise was in the works for years, maybe even decades. She disappeared the next day. Her body was found in an ally one week later. As it appeared, she was the only one left to be killed who had worked with the agency. And, after it all, he was still alive. 

Omi was finally convinced he could start living a normal life, forget about the past and pretend he knew nothing of death and blood. It wasn't easy, and it probably never would be. But he tried. He got a job working in a grocery store down the street from his apartment building, and went back to finish his final year of high school. It kept his mind from wondering, and he was able to find a little pleasure in the simplicities of life. 

Perhaps he was trying to discard the past. Perhaps he was running away. Though as hard as he tried to use his real name, he found such things could not be. He couldn't live as Mamoru Takatori. He couldn't take the family's destiny into his hands. He was Omi Tsukiyono, the orphaned boy with no factual past. It may not hold the justice it once did, but then again, maybe some part of him never wanted to truly forget. 

"Hey, Tsukiyono-kun!" 

He glanced over his shoulder to see Katrya standing behind him, her bag resting over her shoulder and her blouse unbuttoned to her black satin bra. He felt his cheeks flush and looked away, smiling pleasantly. "Hello, Memoria-san." 

She stepped in stride with him, a light grin embellishing her catlike features. "Nya," she teased. "Don't call me that. It makes me sound old and wrinkled." She made a face at him and he laughed. 

"So what shall I call you then," he inquired gently. 

She hummed, placing her fingers against the corner of her mouth. "My friends back home called me Kat, so you can too if you wish." She flashed him a quick smile. 

"Alright, Kat-chan." 

She playfully punched him in the shoulder. "What it is with you Japanese and all your formal titles? Can't you just call someone by their name?" 

He wasn't sure if he should take her seriously, noting all the humor and amiability plastered over her features. But something about her eyes were so serene, he knew she was truly asking this of him. 

"Kat," he said lightly, returning her beautiful smile. 

She nodded. "So where are you off to?" 

He opened his mouth, but something sharply drew the breath from his lungs. His eyes focused on a figure in black; tall, slender, and the purest crimson locks cascading down his neck. He moved gracefully through the crowd, consumed by everything and nothing, a shadow to the cool winds. 

His throat went dry, only a whisper falling from his lips. 

"Aya." 

---

Ran Fujimiya ran his hands through his hair, pulling it back from his face. Stress and anger coursed within him, burning his veins like deathly acid. He glided through the crowd, his vision drifting from one faceless form to another. He'd been here for almost a week now, searching the city for a trace of his sister, a lead, a clue, a sense of danger. But nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

He bit his lip to keep from screaming in rage. Where was she? Where in god's name was she? 

A woman's scream shattered his thoughts, drawing him into reality as a she crashed into his chest. She looked up at him, paying him no heed as she twisted sharply, her eyes digging into the back of a young girl only meters ahead. "You bitch," she hissed. 

Ran lifted his gaze to the girl, her tall frame veiled in tight black denim and a form-fitting turtleneck. She stood out from the crowd with her height, at least six foot, and her burgundy hair was overly distinguishable compared to the many locks of black surrounding her. She shifted, gazing over her shoulder, trapping Ran with her entrancing silver stare. And then she fled into the crowd. 

He raced after her, discarding the woman in his arms, his muscles contracting and tearing with the instant movement. He spotted her way ahead of him, thrusting her way through the sea of bodies, her stiletto heels clicking furiously against the pavement. 

A man swore at him as he pushed him from his way and into a street cart selling fruit. But it didn't matter. If he lost her now, he would loose everything. 


	6. Chapter Six: The Staircase

**Chapter Six: The Staircase**

The sun began to melt into the approaching darkness, tainting the sky with speckles of violet and rouge as Ran collapsed against the side of an aging building. The crowd was beginning to thin, and docile death washed over the once-busy streets. He had lost her. 

"Damn," he cursed, smashing his clenched hand into the side of the concrete wall. 

"Are you alright, nii-chan?" 

He let his eyes wander down to the small frame of a girl, a petit child, thin with sickness, her hospital gown clinging to a bony frame. Her faded eyes stared at him with childish innocence, a curiosity she would soon lose within her white walls. 

He sighed, letting the tension ride from his features, placing it in lower areas. "I'm fine." 

She smiled at this, a bandage-covered hand reaching out to grasp his. "Then please walk me back to my room?" 

Within that smile, he saw her—Aya. Within that sickness he saw contentment, beauty, a will to live. Within that smile he saw everything he desired for himself, and let the girl lead him through the glass doors into a vacant waiting room; white walls reflecting the colored light, floors shining with a brilliant coat of fresh wax. 

A woman appeared as they entered, her young face leaking relief and subdued panic. "Mai-chan, thank goodness." As she walked towards them, she rubbed her tired eyes, breathing a sigh of reprieve. "Haven't I told you to stop wandering around?" 

"Sorry," the bony child replied, trying to hide behind Ran's arm. He almost smiled at this, turning and picking her up in his arms, swinging her around in the air to bring another radiant smile to her face before placing her in the nurse's hold. 

"I'm sorry about this," the nurse explained with a slight bow of her head as Mai-chan cuddled into her breast, a tiredness washing over her fragile features. "She has a tendency to drift about, causing just enough trouble to keep everyone on their feet." 

"I was looking for Raya," she pouted, twisting her face into a gentle glower. 

"Then why trouble this poor man?" the nurse inquired, humoring the child. 

Mai yawned, settling back down again. "Because their hair is the same." 

Ran's eyes widened with this, hardly paying an ounce of attention as the nurse began to excuse herself. With her turn, he latched onto her shoulder, twisting her back around, his chest tight. "Who's Raya?" 

A slight fear began to creep into the nurse's features as she pulled away from his grasp, deeply embracing the child in an act of protection. "A young Caucasian woman about your age. She arrived here a week ago with a young Japanese girl, a comatose teenager. Usually around this time every day she'll come to visit the girl." The color began to drain from the woman's face. "May I ask of your interest? Do you know her?" 

Ran ignored her questions, his heart pounding against his chest like a thousand raging hooves. "Which room is the girl in?" 

"215, but why..." 

Ran turned from the woman, racing towards the stairwell, his feet screeching upon the freshly finished floor. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, overpowering his train of thought, his rationality. He could think of only one thing, one person, one love, one revenge. 

The door to Room 215 rested open, wavering slightly upon its hinges, the slightest of movements, the slightest of mistakes. He bit his tongue as he rested his hands on the frame, pushing the door open gently, cautiously. Sunlight sneered at him, momentarily blinding his eyes until the light hum of machines and the perfect melody of her breathing filled his ears. He collapsed beside the hospital bed, entwining his fingers through Aya's, feeling the steady beat of her pulse pressing against the skin. 

"Thank god," he whispered, resting his head upon the blankets, beside her dormant corpse. "Thank god." 

A light grin coated the girl's features as she pushed away from the doorframe, slipping from the hollow of the hospital room. Running her hands through her burgundy locks, she sighed gently, lifting the tension and emotional confusion from her chest. She was told he was cold, bitter, dead to the world, absent of all human reaction and emotion. His weak point, however, was tied to that which made him cold, she decided. Maybe, just like herself, it was the past that made him both frighteningly strong and horrifyingly weak. Though his secret was now hers, and hers alone. 

These thoughts consumed her as a young boy raced past, his movements swift and efficient. Her eyes snapped upon his trained agility, his features bringing back memories of the many photographs, the case documents, everything perfectly scarred into her mind. Omi Tsukiyono, Mamoru Takatori, youngest member of the disbanded Weiß, an assassin group still known amongst the underworld for clean finishes and the faintest proof of such fatal wounds. This child was apparently the weakest on a mental and emotional level, letting his compassion ruin his keen sight. Then again, as she just learned, not all facts were set in stone about the beautiful boys of Weiß. 

She could hear his feet lighten and halt as he happened upon Room 215, and a wicked grin placed itself against her pallid face. She laughed lightly as she passed Katrya Memoria on the staircase, the girl hissing from her run, that fake pleasantness dripping from her perfect mask as she rolled up the sleeve of her blouse. 

"What's so funny, Lynx?" she whispered under her breath, a spitefulness gnawing at her tone. 

"Your mask is slipping, Calico. Better watch that or Tsukiyono may figure you out. Not all men are so easily seduced by childlike charm and cleavage." The older girl ran her fingertips over the Russian girls exposed breasts, the lightest of caresses bringing a shudder from the girl's body and a faint blush to her cheeks. 

"Get your hands off me," she hissed. 

The burgundy-haired girl laughed again. "Your mouth says one things and your body another. What am I ever to do with you?" 

"Go fuck a telephone pole." 

Before Memoria could react, the older girl wrapped her fingers around her neck, thrusting her up against the wall. 

"Watch yourself, Calico, and remember who's in charge," she sensually whispered into the other girl's ear. And with the lightest of touches, she wisped her fingers across the girl's lips before gliding down the staircase, disappearing from the spiteful Russian's gaze. 

Swearing, her face bleeding hatred, Katrya clenched her fists, obediently following the shadow she served. It was that shadow whom she despised the most. But she had to leave Omi now, for if Ran saw her, blond wig or not, their cover would be forever blown. 

She hated her life. 


	7. Chapter Seven: Ghosts

**Chapter Seven: Ghosts**

The depth of the night swam around them as they walked, silence coating the air they breathed, the unspoken words lingering deep within. Omi simply sighed, shifting his shoulders as they paced, each step a raw memory, an unheard scream. It was painful, the silence, yet he could only imagine the ache each syllable would hold, the death shrouding each flick of their tongues. 

Ran kept his head held high and slightly adverted from Omi's gaze, his long fingers coiled into his pants' pockets. He always appreciated that time of day, Omi easily recalled, that brief period of darkness between the swirl of melting sky and toxic nightfall, that ever so epigrammatic moment of seclusion and desertion. Yet now, gazing upon his pallid face, his elegant form, there was no enjoyment held within, no desire, no luster. He was veiled in everything he lusted after, and his violet eyes only held the phantoms of despair. It almost killed that trivial breath of hope Omi held in his chest. 

"Aya," he finally said, his voice quiet, gentle. "It's been a while." 

Ran merely hummed a dead reply of acknowledgment, his haunted features still set in stone. This slightly beset Omi, nevertheless it also reminded him of their reality. Ran was always cold, quiet—it was nothing different. Yet the lack of eye contact, the lack of human repose, it told him things were shattered and disturbed. Ran had been blessed with the return of his sister's heart, and then the lives he enthralled himself with during her sleep recoiled in the cruelest game of fate—they tore her away from him once more. Omi knew it was a mistake, an accident, but that night of fire destroyed Ran just as it destroyed Aya-chan. With her fleeting mind, he finally lost his own humanity. He was finally what everyone accused him of being. Broken. 

Agitation slithering down his spine, Omi once again tried smiling at Ran, a futile attempt to drifting eyes. "So how have you been faring in Yokohama?" 

"Fine, I suppose," Ran replied distantly, his gaze still fixated on everything and nothing. "And yourself?" 

"I work over there between attending classes and my studies," the younger boy said amiably, caution held in his beloved tone as he pointed to a small grocery. He looked to Ran with his words, searching that desolate face for a hint of interest, concern. Nothing. Nothing but pure silence. 

"Aya," he finally sighed, "I know you didn't return out of homesickness or need. I know you didn't move Aya-chan back to Tokyo on purpose. So why? Why here, why now?" 

"You always were one to question everything," he replied coolly, his tone sharp yet calm, pure as the delusions of the night. "Meeting you was not my intent. None of this was." 

Omi finally lowered his gaze, Aya's words striking home, each a single prick of the needle, gradually tearing his aspirations to a bloodied mess of carnage. "You can't keep running you know. It's futile. You, Ken…" 

Ran's violet eyes flared with the spoken name, his hands coiling around the younger boy's neck and thrusting him up against the side of a building. Rage burned in his eyes, a deep-rooted hatred and pain, and despite the breath Omi was unable to take, he could only pity Ran. There was nothing more to it. He pitied the state such a strong individual had been reduced to. 

"You're choking me," he whispered hoarsely, his body limp and accepting. Ran gazed into his oceanic irises; their passionless flame faltering with Omi's saddened stare. Shock and realization pooling into the older man's features, he released the boy and recoiled slightly, his own body quivering with his actions. 

"My god," he whispered to himself, clutching his own arm as if anchoring himself to reality. 

Omi coughed gently, easily wrapping his own fingers around his neck as if to ease the reminiscent pain. "It's alright," he managed with a smile, a lily-white expression of plastic painted upon pained flesh. It hurt. 

Ran's eyes once again fired upon Omi, self-loathing rage pooling within the violet blaze. "No, it's not." Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes, finally settling his anger and washing all emotion from his features. "This was a mistake," he finally managed. "I'll be leaving Tokyo tomorrow. Just forget our meeting." 

Omi felt his chest tighten, everything he wanted, desired, once again crumbling before his tainted eyes. There was blood on their hands, stains rooted deeper than the soul, and only they could understand each other's pain. Regardless of what they felt, what cruel events played out before their eyes, they were forever bound to one another. Weiß was not something you could run away from. Wherever they were, whatever they did, it haunted them. Ran, Ken… They were fools, pretending their separation would ease the immortal scars. And yet, once again, Omi could only watch mutely as Ran silently walked away. 

"You've become careless, Ran Fujimiya." 

With the shifting of his frame, Ran peered over his shoulder in mute shock as the rouge beauty tightened her grip on the CZ 75's trigger. His ears throbbed with the explosion as he leaned backwards, letting his body fall to the curb and caching himself against a light pole as the bullet sliced through his crimson locks. Using the pole as a support, he thrust himself back onto his feet, those deathly eyes fixed upon the woman standing only a foot from Omi. 

Omi stood in utter shock, his heart beating in his throat as her crimson lips curled into a sensual smirk. Veiled in nothing but a pure onyx, she stood tall and elegant, a body of perfection and female superiority. The black dress clung to every inch of her slender frame like a second skin. Only her shoulders and thighs rested bare, sadistically exposing the unmarred glamour of vanilla-cream flesh. She shifted upon her leather stilettos, cocking the gun at Ran's still figure once again with another vicious tease of her lucid navy eyes, a perfect mirror to her crimson tresses speaking flames of sexuality and seduction. 

"I wouldn't move if I were you," she said frivolously, carefree. 

Ran sighed, leaning back against the pole as if to keep in the beauty's sight. "Hello, Manx." 

"Hello, Abyssinian," she purred, her hand still held steady. "But I go by Hanae Kitada now, just as you go by Ran Fujimiya, isn't that right?" 

He gave no response, once again altering his distant gaze. She rolled her eyes and lowered the gun. 

"Manx, what are you doing here?" Omi finally managed, his skin pale, his chest tight. 

"Alive you mean?" 

Rubbing his arms, he only nodded, the fragile appearance of a broken child replacing his composure. 

"I'm sorry I never came to see you Omi. Truly." Her eyes softened with her words, and in that state she caught Ran glancing in her direction. "Though it's good to know you're all alive. I guess tearing yourselves away from the business saved your corpses in the long run." 

Once again her eyes shifted to Ran, cool suspicion held within. "Aren't you going to ask what happened? Inquire what I'm talking about?" 

"I may not care for the business, Manx, but I know what happened. How Kritiker has quite literally been slaughtered." 

She narrowed her navy irises at that. "Where did you obtain such information?" 

"From the man who attempted to slit my throat." 

"Just imagine," she mused bluntly, not missing a beat. "The same thing happened to me." 

"That still doesn't answer my question, Manx," Omi stressed lightly. "That also doesn't explain how you managed to happen upon the both of us. It's not something I'd call a coincidence." 

"That's because it isn't." 

Omi's eyes widened, sentiments of confusion and bewildered fear flowing through his veins with each pulse of his heart. Etched in the flowing darkness, he slid his hand into his pants' pocket, fingering the pocketknife concealed within. He soon realized his reaction to her words scared him more than the words themselves. 

"Relax, Omi," she finally sighed. "You both deserve an explanation. Come with me. All will be made clear very soon." 

And with that, she took the first step into the bitter night, the streetlights flickering on behind her. 


	8. Chapter Eight: Familiar Gray

**Chapter Eight: Familiar Gray**

The flower shop appeared as it always had; bay leaves resting against one another, envious of their brilliant greens, unfinished bouquets resting in pieces and sliced stems, forlorn and forgotten until tomorrow's morn. Walking through its darkened hold, past the shelves and pots veiled in the allure of crimson bleeding roses and bitterly intoxicating peonies, Ran felt his stomach tighten with the familiarity, the sense of belonging. Clenching his fist, he bit down the sentiment. It was worthless, insignificant. Everything that place was, everything it once held, represented—it was a lie.

A bitter, unconceivable lie.

But it was that untruth which led him through those hallways and doors, down that twisting staircase of dust-veiled metal, and into the blackened holding still smelling of Youji's cigarettes and Ken's spicy but soothing cologne. Scents that were anything but a memory.

"Youji," Omi whispered through the darkness, his eyes latching onto the faint shadow of tattered blond tresses and waves of sickly smoke.

He smiled, his fingers tapping the cigarette butt against the ashtray before him. "Really, Manx, you outdid yourself."

She laughed, gliding into the room, her sensual figure framed in the static buzz of the glowing screen. "If only it were so." Collapsing into the comfort of the stiff sofa, she leaned against the cushions, Youji joining her with the simple elegance of a feline, wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

Omi stood rigid, finally seating himself awkwardly in the chair across from the pair, his eyes coursing from Ran's slumped figure leaning against the foundation pillar to the silhouette resting against the obscurity of the farthest wall. Ran's eyes remained closed, tension streaked through his hardened demeanor, a cold air smothering the warmth of the room. In a way, nothing had changed, and that was what continued to freeze the wounds rather than heal them.

"As you are all aware, we've been summoned here," Manx said gently, breaking the silence. "Us, the remaining survivors of Kritiker, scattered throughout the globe, and now miraculously here in Tokyo at the exact same time."

"Lovely coincidence, isn't it?" Youji droned lightly, taking another draw on his tactless addiction.

"We'd be fools to think of it as that," Manx replied, her tone superior, weary.

Omi finally lifted his gaze from the mute pair, fixing it upon Manx's midnight eyes. "You're saying you never planned this?"

"You could look at it that way." She sighed, running her hands back through a mess of tight curls. "I received a call to my unlisted cell two weeks earlier from a voice rooted thick in European expertise, telling me that on August 19th, Weiß would be returning to Tokyo." She stood, slipping from beneath Youji's slack hold, retrieving a single blank disk from the grasp of the bookshelf, slipping it into the screen's side.

"The caller's name is Adrian Court, the head strategist of Silira, one of Europe's finest governmental assassination organizations. He told me a disk would be hidden within a copy of Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven at Tokyo U's main library along with further instructions. And then the line went dead. Needless to say, the disk was there along with a note written in English, explaining our roles in this viciously common game of hide and seek."

Before further words could be spoken, she grasped hold of the remote, flicking the screen to a series of photographs, selecting the nearest to the top. The display flew into a series of colors before exhibiting a single image of a blurred face caught in motion, burgundy hair cast over the most entrancing silver eyes. Ran clenched his jaw.

"Her supposed name is Raya Sotai. Her identity, just like her past, is unknown, but she's wanted in over thirty-eight countries for hundreds of accounts of manslaughter and governmental conspiracy. In the past month there have been two sightings of her on Japanese soil, and there is reason to believe she is connected to those who obliterated Kritiker a year earlier. These are her known accomplices." With Manx's words, three other profiles appeared on the screen. Pointing her remote at the second image, Youji's chest grew tight. "Akira Yuri, ex-American forces and Sotai's most trusted comrade. Any incident connected with Sotai is as equally connected with her. She, like Sotai, has managed to elude capture for the past three years running, entering a country and leaving an invisible trail of blood.

"We have reason to believe they've lured us back to Tokyo to finish the job their employers couldn't earlier. That is why Silira contacted me, so we can turn the tides." Manx's eyes latched onto Ran's pallid features, pulling his lost sights to her own. "It's your call, Ran, but remember, it's also our lives."

He shook his head, a light grin of malice forming over his tight lips. "Is this what this is, Manx? A hunt to the death? A scheme of revenge? No, it's anything but, so don't be a fool. Silira is using us, taking advantage of the situation. They want those girls dead for whatever twisted reason, and they've become desperate. However, they do not possess the international strength to enter this country without setting off any suspicion. Then again, why bother when you can throw the remnants of a shattered agency at them."

Youji laughed. "I think that's the most I've ever heard you say."

"Is that a no?" Manx asked bitterly, ignoring the lounger's comment.

"It's a thought," Ran replied, his tone neutral, dead. "It's not my right to tell you what to do, and it's no longer my job."

"Do you have any compassion?"

Manx and Youji caught their breath while Omi bit his tongue, the sweet metallic taste running down his throat with his broken anticipation. The heat, the frustration...

Ran's glare sliced into the veil of shadows, a cool fire of blistering hatred oozing into the thick wisp of air caught between the two. Ken clenched his jaw, pushing away from the wall with casual elegance, walking into the faint silver luminosity of the projecting screen. He appeared as he always had, his tall, slender frame dressed in slimming gray cotton and black jeans, his chocolate tresses sun-streaked and shaggy, framing the clear complexion of his tanned flesh. But his eyes had changed; the warmth they once held, the brimming sense of guilt, of awkward passion—it was gone, replaced with spite and antagonism. A glare of bitter blame.

"You're not one to speak of compassion," Ran coiled lightly, his tone still cold, blank. Refusing to move from his post, letting Ken walk to him, to stand before him, he almost smiled down at the man he hated so much, the very comrade that took everything he held dear from him with the drop of a petal.

"I have no intention of fighting with you, Aya, just as you have no intention of letting this 'coincidence' rest unscathed."

Ran almost laughed, his faint grin returning. "And why do you say that?"

"Your eyes give everything away," the other man replied gently, sternly. "You've seen Raya before, and you will hunt her down regardless if we're there to help or not."

"What I do is my own affair."

"Goddammit, no!" Ken lashed out, his fist caught by Ran's strong grip, their hands trapped in a dance of violence as Ran's hold only tightened, bringing their fingered embrace above their heads, their eyes seated within the other's, a lust for pain and agony bleeding from their reflective glares.

Manx finally stood, her anger outweighing her trembling flesh. "Stop it, both of you."

The pair released their grip, still keeping their bodies close, their lustful hatred closer. Omi let out a quivering breath of relief, his horrid expectancy broken, his dread dissipating. Though it would happen again. The heat they possessed, the soul-rooted passion, the unforgivable sense of raw blame—neither would let the sentiments dispel, not as long as they continued to breathe. Once the same drop of moonlight, they were now fire and ice, prying at the other to regain their lost insight. A constant battle of vitality had erupted a year before, and now the only price was their immortality. That, and their flickering sanity.

"He's right, Aya," Youji sighed, breathing another cloud of smoldering ash before grinding the butt into the glass tabletop. "We're all involved this time; not just you. Take that into consideration before casting us astray." He paused, meeting the ex-assassin's violent stare. "We may not be a part of Kritiker anymore, but we're still Weiß, whether you accept it or not."

"A sinner's only company is that of his fellow sinners," Ken added, breathing the words down Ran's pallid flesh as he stepped away, sinking once again into the security of the shadows.

With their silence, Manx scattered four profile folders across the glass coffee table, smearing the ash in blackened streaks across the untainted crystal. "Your assignments are to track down these four girls, discover their whereabouts and their motives. Youji, you'll be seeing to Akira. Omi, Ken, you'll be looking for the group's other two members. Their codenames are Calico and LaPerm. Photographs are currently unavailable, but the files contain the best info I could dig up. And Ran..."

He let his fingers trace the contours of his face; let them wisp past his cheekbones to rest against his burgundy lips. "Sotai, right?" She could only nod in reply.

"You never gave us a kill order, Manx," Ken questioned, humor lingering in his muted tone.

"How perceptive of you, Siberian." She threw a sensual smile over her shoulder as she wove her way up the basement staircase, coiling away from their sights, her heels lightly clicking against the metallic steps. "Enjoy, boys, and make Mommy proud."


	9. Chapter Nine: Droning Skylights

**Chapter Nine: Droning Skylights**

His back pressed against the wall, papers and files littered before his feet, Ran rested the tip of the cigarette against his lips, leisurely inhaling his newest habit, his pathetic coping method. Aya-chan hated the smell of smoke, and for so long after the fire it was all he could smell off of her skin—burning. But then that scent was all he knew, and he couldn't get enough.

Exhaling a line of gray, his eyes continued to flick over Sotai's files. She was young, terribly young. Nineteen and to have accomplished so much destruction, to have so many death warrants held over her head. It seemed she was Canadian, which surprised him greatly, French-Canadian at that. Asian blood ran through her veins though, giving her the paleness and fine bone structure most European descendants do not possess. There were no records of a family however, nor was there a record of birth. Just an age and a name, a name he presumed to be a later creation. Many things seemed random in her files; accomplices, methods, money transactions—none of them staying common from mission to mission, those known of at least. Everything but...

Youji nearly swallowed his cigarette as Ran's door flew open in his face, the stoic assassin pulling his leather jacket around his shoulders as he kicked his door closed. Narrowing his sights, Youji let a light smile tug at the edges of his lips, watching as Ran glided down the hall, his coldness and detachment visible with each smooth step.

"And to think I was just coming to discuss women with you," he said lightly, watching slyly as the red-haired man came to a halt, still keeping his back turned. "Though noting your attire, I'm assuming you've already found a lead on one of our leading ladies."

Ran seemed to remain incensed by Youji's sarcastic tone and only massaged the muscles in the back of his neck before continuing onwards. Youji scoffed, tonguing the cigarette lightly, the grin still creasing his mouth. "Some things really never do change, huh Aya?" The statement anything but a question, he sighed and threw his files into Ran's room. Following the man out into the night, he merely found himself alone in a sea of bodies, Ran having slipped away.

"Fucker," Youji mused, and trailed a hand back through his hair. Things really hadn't changed at all.

- + -

Bright neon lights had replaced Tokyo's subtle day colors, and something about the smoky scented air turned from casual to toxic with the nightfall. The uneasiness that struck Ran baffled him at first, and yet it didn't in the slightest. He couldn't explain it, and then he realized that he didn't much care. He simply walked up and down the district streets, gazing upon various pubs and bars, restaurants and clubs. For hours on end he ventured into many, sifting through the crowds, only to exit again within seconds. A thousand different aromas then began to stick to him, seep into his pours, but regardless, all he could smell was the burning. Unaware, he found himself lighting another cigarette, the cheap pack of Camels now crumpled and worn. Tired, he leaned against the outside of a weathered coffeehouse bar, light music wafting through the open doors into the street along with the scent of strong mocha and bitter rye. As the light sounds ended, an odd quiet hummed out into the city, and suddenly cheers erupted from inside followed by disjointed sounds of mike taps and quick guitar plucks. Live music, he noted as another group prepared to sing, and he felt himself fade as a deep female voice, dark and sensual, began to purr through the bar, the low range striking him oddly. Yet it was still stunning, how her voice coiled over the jazzy instrumentals, almost bestowing it with sex more so than harmonics. Something about it bothered him though, like a distant thought, and he felt himself slipping through the doors and into the thick crowd cradled by coffee tables and stools. The atmosphere dark and shadowed, lights so dim that only the circular glass bar in the center was visible along with the outline of the stage, he drifted closer to the songstress, her vocals becoming stronger, more poignant.

Letting the crowd cradling the stage drink him whole, he felt himself swallow sourly as the burgundy-haired half-breed shifted into view, her slender frame clothed in a loose black cotton shirt slipping from her shoulders and a skin-tight leather skirt, the length uneven, caught somewhere between above her knee and an inch below her crotch. And yet nothing about her seemed cheap or fabricated, just sensual and fierce, an attitude furthered by her voice.

Walking back towards the bar, he sat upon one of the many empty stools, barely casting the bartender a glance. Instead he kept his gaze locked on Sotai as she coiled her lips over the microphone, utterly oblivious to the crowd before her. Even the most trained of eyes would peg her as a performer, an artist, for there was lust carved into her face, a lust for nothing corporeal, and it almost made him jealous. She was a good actress.

"You have to love those mixed-breed whores, drawing all the attention from the bar so I can't even make a fucking measly one-hundred yen in tips."

He cast his blank stare towards the bartender, hardly surprised as Akira smiled back at him, the devil dancing in her eyes.

"Must be a bitch," he mused aesthetically, hardly interested with the prospect of tackling Youji's assignment. As far as he was concerned, Akira could take out half the people in the bar right at that very instant, as bloody as she liked. She wasn't his problem, and he, in all honestly, never gave much of a damn.

She seemed to eye him with suspicion and interest as she dropped a chunk of ice into a glass, as if waiting for him to punch her or something. His eyes remained cast upon Sotai though, and she finally laughed, reaching for a bottle of amber rum. "I haven't seen that look on a man's face in a long time."

His eyes shifting back to Akira, he regarded her casually. "Oh?"

"Yeah, I'm not sure if you want to strangle her or fuck her. Hell, I'm beginning a wager a healthy dose of both." Pouring coke over the rum, she slid the glass towards him. "It's on the house, and no, there's nothing in it. I, unlike her, have no intention of poisoning you."

"Lovely," Ran commented jadedly. For the remainder of the performance, they sat in silence, Akira randomly attending to several guests, but mostly she slumped over the bar and eyed Sotai, not with longing or jealousy, but with a sense of protection.

As the final jazzy tune ended and the crowd erupted in a string of cheers, Sotai gently tipped her head and coiled her fingers in a wave before slipping offstage, another group appearing with her leave and the crowd bursting into cheers once again.

Stepping from the stool, Ran slid five hundred yen onto the bar, only to receive a sarcastic, "Don't screw her too hard," from Akira. Ignoring her like he would Youji, he continued back out into the night, traveling down the street farther until coming to the alleyway behind the string of bars. The lights were cast low and the brick remained dewy and covered in grime; a series of garbage cans and dumpsters brimmed with filth. As he turned another corner, Sotai lay stretched back against the back of the bar, a gray trench coat tied tight around her frame. Gingerly inhaling, her fingers glistened as they held a freshly lit cigarette, each finger possessing a silver ring or two.

"I figured you'd come look for me," she said, exhaling a line of chemical gray. "So I made it easier for you."

He stopped a meter before her, resting his hands in his pockets, fingering the pocketknife gently. "Why does Silira want you dead?"

She laughed at this. "You really are a no bullshit kind of guy, aren't you?"

"Answer the question."

Her features hardening, she only hummed in reply. "I can probably think of fifty reasons off the top of my head. Fraud, murder, espionage, theft, torture—pick your poison." Her eyes narrowing, she finally cast them towards him. "That's not what you want to know though. What you want to know is why I lured you back to Tokyo."

Ran's visage never faltered as he strode towards her, gently lifting her hand to his mouth and inhaling from her cigarette, the taste distinctively Marlboro. Only centimeters existing between them, he leaned in towards her ear, spilling smoke through her burgundy hair. "Enlighten me then."

Pulling away from him, a cynical smile coated her dark lips, making her all the more dangerous. "No, Abyssinian, that I cannot do, for if I do, one of us wouldn't live through the night, and I doubt that's what either of us want." Walking back down the alleyway, she held her hand up behind her head, giving another coiled-finger wave. "Until later."

Bemused, Ran rested his head back against the brick wall, placing a cold hand upon his forehead, feeling the heat and blood pulsate beneath the skin. Something was terribly wrong, terribly array. It would've been easy for him to grab her, drug her, interrogate her—yet no. He knew he wouldn't be able to do it, and she knew too. She knew she had him wrapped around her finger, and he could only wonder if it was attraction, sexual strife, or instinct that kept him from slitting that pocketknife through her stunning flesh. But whatever it was, he also knew her involvement with him was much more than a simple assassination.


	10. Chapter Ten: Something Scribbled

**Warning:** The following chapter contains graphic scenes of homosexuality. For those readers who would rather not read such content, I will be posting a brief but concise overview of this chapter's main plot points at the beginning on the next chapter. All in all, feel free to skip this chapter and move onward if offended by such material.

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**Chapter Ten: Something Scribbled**

Lying upon the bed, his back straight against the header, Ken sighed. Straining to read in the dim lamplight, a single bulb fizzing overhead, a headache began to brew behind his eyes. Subtle at first, a light prick of pain surged behind his right eye like the distant flicker of a candle. But then a second surge, a third. Soon it was just a constant drone, a deafening racket of flesh and blood pulsating behind his skull. No matter how much he read, how the details of this "Calico" and her life attempted to drill itself into the contours of his mind, everything seemed to be muffled by _him_. He attempted to ignore the ignorable, attempted to process the many facts and vague details adorning the files—a young female of Chinese-Russian descent, no apparent family, limited surveillance appearances with the exception of a political assassination pulled alongside Sotai and Yuri two years previous in Bangladesh, just a distorted black and white shot detailing a terribly young face not even twenty years of age, a face almost so pretty it was unnoticeable—and yet, when reflecting, he saw nothing of her. Instead he saw flames. Air of ginger smoke. Blackened ash falling, falling so fast. Trapping _her_. And the screams. God, the screams.

Covering his face with his hands, he felt himself cringe, not with pain or fright or anxiety, but guilt. That never-ending guilt. Clenching his eyes closed, he saw Aya within the swirling darkness, her petite frame lying against the building floor, cradled by a marigold blaze. Her head lay covered in black debris, the screams having halted, but her cries still sounded so clearly in his ears.

Ran swore he'd never forgive him as they sat in the hospital waiting room that night, both patched in bandages and burns. The look the red-haired man gave him—he'd seen Ran hurt before, seen him silently suffer, but that look... It tunneled through Ken deeper than the bullet wound in his shoulder. It tunneled straight to his heart and severed every artery. And then there was nothing to be felt anymore, nothing but utter and sheer guilt. And he couldn't even protest Ran's blame. No, he deserved it. He deserved everything that happened for his foolishness. That one foolish mistake that almost cost an innocent's life, the one that cost him his lover.

His head a storm of ache and recollection, Ken barely took note of the gentle opening of his door, the subtle close. Steadying his breath, he lifted his hands from his face as he felt the press of weight on the edge of the bed. His eyes fluttering open to the bitter dark, he felt the figure hover over his legs, looming. Placing his hands in front of him, he clutched his fingers over bare shoulder flesh, and that's when he caught the image of that ever-familiar face. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, he grasped for breath as lips came crashing onto his own. Something of lust and violence swimming within him, he bit hard into the skin, the sweet taste of iron soon trickling through his teeth with ease. Cold hands sifting beneath his shirt, he felt his body arch with the contact, the fabric riding over his ribs and across his shoulders, lips parting for only a second as cotton passed between them. And once again they collided, viciously pressing into one another, saliva trickling down throats, tongues running over teeth.

It was like he was drugged, the sensations rolling over him in foggy, slow breaths, everything so close and yet so far away. As if he was detached from himself, from his mind, from his corpse. Giddy and drained and stupid and impulsive and dirty and gross and beautiful and ugly and wrong and… Ken groaned as he felt cool hands enclose over him. Up and down and up and—he felt himself grow hand in the other man's hands, every inch of him pulsing with release, completely aroused.

"Faster," he whispered, his throat raw as he threw his head back, the man's lips kissing down the spanse of his chest as the hand continue to stroke. Harder, harder, everything turning to sticky heat, blood pulsing through his cock like a sickly blaze. Harder, harder, his heart beating in his throat, turning everything to scents of sweat and nicotine, his tongue coated in it. Harder, harder, harder—

Even as he came, he was far from sated. The scent of semen filling and air and trickling across his pelvic bones—it drove him further into lust. Lips once again chewing at his own, he pried his hands into the other man's sweatpants, pushing them down over his buttocks. Hastily he pressed the man down on top of him, spasms of heat rushing through his groin as he felt his cock slide against another. Viciously, hurriedly, he felt himself stroke both the man's and his own, hot spit still filling his throat. Again and again and again, the feel of two membranes pulsing against one another, both hard, throbbing.

"Do it, Ran," he gasped between breaths. "Fuck me. Hard."

A silence seemed to pass then, the halting of mouths, and then the distance. Opening his eyes, Ken stared upon Ran's shadowed, hovering face, waiting, wanting. But then…

Jarring awake, Ken gasped for breath, the dim lamplight burning his eyes like citrus. The headache still pounding against his temples, he kicked the open files from his bed, papers spilling through the small space with little effort.

"Fuck," he mumbled, clenching his eyes closed, the dream still lingering in the corners of the blackness. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." He sat there then for moments on end, sweat clinging to his flesh, head spinning, groin throbbing. Even as Youji barged through the door, he didn't stir.

"Something written in there piss you off?" the older man sneered while regarding the mess of files, cigarette caught between his teeth. As if constantly laughing at an unknown joke, he leaned against the doorway, his casually snide look causing Ken to clench his jaw.

"Not really."

"Yeah, well I think I just heard Omi actually swear, so you're not the only one."

"And you?"

Laughing bitterly, Youji took another drag, spilling a weave of gray into the small space. "You'd think after fucking her, I'd know something useful other than the fact she—"

"_Youji_."

"Yeah, yeah. But still. Fucking enigma. My only lead is that wherever Sotai pops up, Akira won't be far behind. Like the girl's bloody watchdog or something. Jesus, it's like you and Aya— Ran."

Ken narrowed his gaze. "Excuse me?"

"Oh come on," Youji mused, taking another drag. "You two were all over each other's backs. Constantly watching, predicting. And then, I guess when you both became aware of it, you'd intentionally ignore one another." He laughed. "It was almost cute."

The urge to punch him was so strong, Ken nearly screamed. It wasn't worth it though, so he just stared in silence, completely and utterly displeased. "Does any of this have a point?"

"Touché. I have to ask though, does that stick up your ass ever hurt?"

"Youji would you go fu—"

"Yeah, I know, but before I go suck myself off, Omi wanted me to drop off some more files." Flicking them across the bed, Ken flipped one open, eyes leisurely scrolling.

"Aliases?"

Taking another drag, Youji nodded. "La Perm's apparently. Interesting thing is, according to all the info Omi can dig up, the bitch is dead."

Humming lightly, Ken continued scrolling through the lists. "Let me guess, a casualty of the LA stadium bombing?"

"What, you came across that already?"

"More like I was there." Even as Youji eyed him, Ken ignored the feel of the other man's questioning gaze. "I figured she had something to do with this, but I wouldn't have pegged her as an assassin. Too thin, frail—elegant. And she mentioned something about warning me..." Pausing, his eyes ceased to read any further. "Maybe it's just me, but do you get the feeling something is terribly awry?"

"There's an understatement," Youji mused while crushing the ruminants of his cigarette butt into the wooden desk. "For a bunch of chicks that have apparently been hired to slit our fucking throats, they've sure had a slew of unused opportunities. It's like we're being fucking toyed with."

"Thing is I'm unsure of who's actually toying with whom."

"Definitely some hidden agenda going on here. And here we are, banging our heads against the bloody wall." Moving towards the bed, Youji leaned over Ken's shoulder, gazing at the list. "Anything of interest there, or just more tedious bullshit?"

"Now this is interesting," Ken deliberated, his stony face turning to something resembling life. "Clever little bitch. Look here." Pulling out one of the few files still lingering on the bed, he flipped through a multitude of papers until point to a single highlighted name. "See that?"

"Sara Yamazaki?"

"Last time Calico was in Japan, three years back, she was staying in a loft listed under that name. Now look at the list of La Perm's aliases, bottom of the left column."

Youji laughed then, something of intrigue and smug superiority. "Sara fucking Yamazaki."

"Better yet, according to Omi's notes, that loft's still rented under that name."

As a short silence passed between the two, they just stared at the white paper, something about it turning gray in their tired eyes.

"Have a sudden urge to break into a certain loft tomorrow afternoon at, say, two-thirty?"

Smacking Ken across the back, Youji fell into another string of throaty laughs. "Jesus, did you even have to ask?"


End file.
